,3^ 



THE 



PLAYS AND POEMS 



OF 




IN THREE PARTS. 



New York : 

Dehsser & Procter, 508 Broadway. 

1859. 



PART I. 



EVA. 



A TRAGIC POEM 



IN ONE SCENE. 



.DRAMATIS PERSONtE. 

Lothario, betrothed of Eva. 
Eva, a Nun. 



EVA. 



Scene is laid in the Garden of a Convent, — Time, Night, 

Lothario {crouched behind a shrub). 

Softly, ye winds ! 
Oh, softly ! lest your boisterous howl beggar 
This golden moment of its prize. Thou heart, 
Be still ! Aye, stiller than a cradled child ! 

Hark ! was it fancy ? 
Could it be the sultry summer-breathings 
Stirring the shrubs ? 'Tis the hour she spends 
Here, at her sweet orisons ! Hist I There is 
A voice, a dulcet voice ! fanning up the 
Fires of my soul^and / am here — crouched. 
And culprit-like, to gaze, one moment, on 

1* 



10 Eva, 

My Eva's face — unseen ! unheard ! 

O years I 
O days ! O vigil-nights I dead are ye all 
To me I And sweet-faced phantom joy gives up 
Her spirit now, in my despair ! Hush I hush ! 
She comes ! O God ! Tis she I 

{Enter Eva in nun^s veil — walking 
slowly — eyes upturned, and hands 
clasped upon her breast. 

Lothario. Eva ! my bride ? my beautiful 

bride ? 
Eva. Thou here ? Lothario ? 
Lothario. Oh ! blest the hour that brings me 
to thy feet I 
My Eva I Life and soul are thine ! 
Here, at thy feet, behold thy homage — look 
Upon me — look, gentle Eva I lest I die ! 
Eva. Thou here ? 

LoTHATio. Here : braving years of absence ; 
braving 



Eva. 1 1 

The wild, wild waves — braving all for thee I 
How ? Know you not me ? Lothario ? 

Eva. Better the dead, than the untrue I 
Better the waves of Eternity ! 

Lothario. Eva ! my own bride I 

Eva. Better the sombre veil — than life, and 
all 
Its roses ! Better the wail of sins, within 
A maiden's breast — than the music of Love ! 

Oh! better the curse of Hell ! 
T'han — false — Lothario ! 

Lothario. Eva ! My own betrothed ! O 
Eva, see ! 
At thy feet I kneel — and as the Angel 
Of my Life — do beg thy love ! 

Eva. Away ! False Lothario ! I am the 
Bride of Heaven ! 

Lothario. False ? Thou art my 
IVorld!— My life ! 

Eva. I am the bride of Heaven I 



12 Eva. 

Lothario. Oh! Oh! Oh! 

Not mine ? 
No more to ramble through the harvest-fields 
Watching the sunbeams glow upon thy cheeks ? 
While birds wing to their nestling place, and 
Flower-cups open to the evening dews ? 

No more 
To follow the meandering brook— -and 
Sit upon its borders, wreathing garlands, 
While a sweet, soul-voice whispers in our 
Spirits, " B^kat is Lave f" Can I hold this 
Plighted hand in mine no more ^—No more ? 
Eva ! once mine—s>^t?^ to me. 

Eva. Art thou here to crown a dead heart 
With new thorns — new vows ? No more ! 
Away ! 

Lothario. Alas ! I — am,^ — here — to — die ! 

[Looks upon Eva despairingly as if 
for aid — zvhile he draws a dagger 
from his doublet. 



Eva. 13 

Eva ! 

Touch me not with thy pure hand ! Despair 
Cankers all that was good of me — and sin 
Walks in triumph through my soul ! 

Eva, the bride of Christ ! 
Save me ! 

Tell me, what is heaven ? 
Eva. Heaven is that blessed bourne, where 
eyes weep 
Not— in whose shining gates, sorrow can 
Never cast her shadow ; pain, nor despair 
Ever enter to disturb the sweet serenity 
Of the eternal feast prepared for the 
Faithful fold ! 

[Lothario resting upon the swardy 
with closed eyes, seems scarcely to 
hear, 

Lothario. To die unloved I 
Eva. Heaven is the home of God — in whose 
Bosom the weary head is pillowed — whose 



14 Eva. 

Hand breaks every manacle — whose voice 
Awakens everlasting bliss — and dries 
The tears upon the humblest cheek 
Of those— — 

Lothario. Thou Bride of Christ ! Save me I 
What is heaven ? Speak — quickly ! 

Eva. Of those who love his will ! 

Lothario. O Eva ! Thou hast left me — 
Thou lovest me no more ! 

My soul is rent 
And bitter waters overwhelm me I 

Save me ! 
Save me ! if thou lovest our God. 

\^He draws his dagger and is in the 
act of plunging it in his breast, 

[Eva lays her hand upon him, touched 
by his love, says in gentle tones 

Eva. Lothario, 

In the darkest hour of my long, desolate 



Eva. 15 

Grief (among the children of men), / loved 
Thee. Prayers, and misery, counted the 
Sad hours of years — waiting, and watching 
And pining on, till the fires of passion 
Scorched and blighted the feelings, that so long 
Had nourished them — and they died — 
Died like summer-plants, of their own sun's rays. 
Then, the fire that drank up its 
Own life — went out — 

l^Ske leans closer to Lothario, and 
whispers lowly and despairingly. 

And there was left 

A desert ! A barren waste ! No bloom — no 

Life ! As far as human soul could reach 

Naught — naught — save utter darkness ! 

\_She grows paler with agony, and 
leans closer to Lothario as her 

voice becomes fainter. 

Then, descended 
A seraph, with shining hair, bearing a 



i6 Eva. 

Cross — and in this fearful waste, planted his 
Sacred burden. And I was the bride 
Of Christ. He bore upon his wings 
My sorrowing love, and as a marriage 
Pledge, left me the cross — that I may have 
Eternal light — and know etemal joy ! 

[She bends closely to Lothario, lay- 
ing her hands on his. 

Lothario I Come ! I — love — Ah ! 

\She dies. 

Lothario. O God ! that icy clasp I 

Those hands !— Death ? — Eva, 

My saving angel I Thou didst spare me the 

Etemal curse of banishment from thee 

And God ! and I come, I — I — join thee 

In those blessed spheres — where thy seraph, with 

His shining cross has led thee — 

Where the pure in heart see God ! 

Eva, my Saving Angel, I come — 

I come — Eva, my Saving Angel I 

[Lothario dies. 



PART II 



TRAGIC POEM 



IN THREE ACTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Lord de Belmont. 

Earl of Eglestone. 

Earl of Lentnore, married to Rosalie. 

Otho, hlind chief of the Gipia. 

l^wo Gipy guards, etc. 

Servants of Belmont Castle. 

Edith de Belmont, mother of Rosalie. 

Rosalie. 

Malvina, old Gipsy sister of Otho. 

Ynez, attendant of Edith de Belmont. 



A TRAGIC POEM. 



ACT I. — Scene First. 

A Forest with Gipsy Camps — Time, Nighty and two Gipsy 
. Guards are sitting near a Fagot-fire, 

1ST Gip. Ugh ! The wind is sharp I and 
The woods are bare ! 

2D Gip. Yes : and sleep 
Were better than watching through the 
Leafless boughs — all night. 

1ST Gip. What time o' night is it ? 

2D Gip. The night-stars are yet high, in 
Their course — but, forsooth ! I ween, the 
Treasure is not worth the trouble. 

1ST Gip. But, you know 



24 -^ T^ragic Poem. 

The maiden weeps, and will not be 
Comforted — her pensive lips are mute : 
And her soft eyes look like patches 
Of a spring sky. Besides, she pines 
Through the rudeness of our life. 

2D Gip. Yes ; a palace 
Is different to the camp-life 
Of Gipsies — Ugh ! this wind I 

1ST Gip. Perchance the young nobleman 
Had naught in view ; but, old Malvina 
Says, as she, with the young damsel 
Was walking in the woods to gather 
Herbs, a horseman, young and gay, cross't 
In their path — ^and, sudden as the 
Lightning's flash, the maid threw down 
A clasp of her bodice. 

2D Gip. Fie ! fie ! Old Malvina's tales ! 
Her seelngs ever come to naught. 

1ST Gip. Of a truth, she is garrulous; but 
With the story : The young knight captured 



A 'tragic Vo:in. 25 

The clasp — but the girl came back to 
The camp with the gipsy. 

2D Gip. Pooh ! Pooh ! why not give her over 
In ransom to the knight ? Should he 
Be enamored of her, he will 
Make us all rich, and we need no 
More watch over the sick turtle dove. 

1ST Gip. The chief man ! the chief Three 
Months have given her his tender 
Love — she is his daughter now. 

2D Gip. Ugh ! Ugh ! 

1ST Gip. Besides, 
Malvina is her mother now, 
And when she reads to the old 
Blind chief, his ears drink in the 
Sounds, and he commends her 
To his sister's care ; but, of a truth, 
Something's on the stir. Malvina 
Has of late grown serious — little 
Saying to the chief — and wandering 

2 



26 A 'Tragic Voem. 

Much time with the maid, none know 
Whither. 

2D Gip. Hist ! man, what is that ? 

1ST Gip. Naught but the dead branches fall- 
ing- 
Devil take this night ! 

2D Gip. What ! hear you not ? 

1ST Gip. Hear what? 

2D Gip. Again ! Listen ! 

1ST Gip. Hush ! I do hear — look ! under the 
Bare boughs — something white. 

2D Gip. Ethereal like — shall we call ? 

1ST Gip. No — no — be still ! 'Twas a spirit — 
Or something resembling. I see 
Nothing now. 

2d Gip. Speak to it ! 
Shout ! Ring the woods ! 

1ST Gip. The night is thick in darkness I and 
The white mantled thing fluttered so 
Far under the bleak trees ! Besides, 



A "tragic Poem. 27 

A good spirit, man, would hardly 
Stir further on such a night. 

2D Gip. Holy Mother, preserve us ! There 
It is I A woman ! or a ghost I 

1ST Gip. What a pale, pale, spirit ! Hear I 

It moans ! It comes ! Sainted Virgin ! 

2D Gip. Sainted Mother, defend us ! 

[ Theyjlee, 

Scene Second. 

Enter Edith de Belmont clad in White — Feet bare — torn 
with Thorns — Pilgrim!' s Staff in Hand — pale with Grief 
— and uttering her first Words ^ sinks upon the Ground, 

Edith. My child ! Oh, my child ! 

Canst thou 
Not hear these words that break 
Thy mother's heart ? Rosalie ! Rosalie ! 
Yes : you jealous woods and caves ! crack 
Your voices with her sweet name when 
I call. A mother has lost her 



28 A Tragic Poem. 

Child — and these bleeding feet will crush 
The wildest flowers of every clime, 

'Till my sweet pet rests in this bosom ! 

\_She stretches forth her arms, and 
in a smothered voice cries. 
My child I 

I cannot behold thee ! Come I come ! 

My lord sits in thy dead father's 

Halls, and revels. Painted cheeks rest 

In his cold bosom. And his 

Perjured tongue utters not one solace 

To thy mother's grief! 

[Enter old Malvina with her bun- 
dle of herbs which she deposits, 
Mal. Who art thou ? 

Woman in flesh — or spirit ? What 

Pallor! 

Edith. Alas ! I live ! 

Good Gipsy, thou art accustomed 

To the perusal of human sorrows — 

Hast thou known ever one like mine ? 



A tragic Poe??i. 29 

Mal. Poor soul ! what taketh thee out on 
Such a night — hast thou no fireside ? 

Edith. O Aie ! Spare me ! Know you 
not 
The charity of home sympathy 
Is ofttimes ruder than winter blasts ? 
And thorns that, at its own fireside 
Make the heart bleed, are keener far 
Than those that tear the feet ? Speak ! 

Mal. {T'ahs her hand pityingly) 

I know thy grief: 
Be thou comforted — but not through 
Thy affections ; for thy lord is 
Cruel ! 

Edith. No ! no ! Look in these drowned 
eyes — 
Tell me my grief — I like to 
Hear it. Words are like probes 
That irritate the wound to pleasant 
Poignancy. 



30 J tragic Poem. 

Mal. Woman-sister ! affection thou 
Wantest. The footprint of death is 
Near thee. Thou art dying the death 
Of thousands — high — ^and low ! 

Edith. {Screaming with impatient agony?) 

Oh ! can you 
Not see that I have lost my child ? 
Why will you not say, " Rosalie — 
Sweet Rosalie I — is lost to her 
Mother, whose eyes must not 
Close again until they behold 
Her." You, who read sorrow — who are 
A woman, perchance a mother, 
Can you not read mine in this poor 
Countenance ? 

Mal. Saw you not two guards here ? 

Edith. Yes; 
They fled — they took me for a 
Spirit. 

Mal. And like one are you, poor sufferer ! 



A T^ragic Poe?n. 31 

Come, I will guard now — and you must 
Sit — and rest here until dawn. 

Edith. Wherefore rest for the body, when 
The soul burns in misery ? 

Mal. Nay — I go to feed the frightened 
Senses of the guards — that they 
Disturb us not here — I will watch 
For them : and you will rest all night 
With me, 

Edith. Thy voice is kind — 
And kindness I so need ! Love me 
A little while — till I die — for 
My child is gone — and — I — mi/st — die I 

Mal. I know it — know all — and for thy 
Poor sake, and the sake of the fair 
Child, I, too, love, I will betray (though 
I do grieve) an old blind man ! 

Edith. Rosalie ? My Rosalie ? 

Mal. Yes. 

Edith. Speak quickly or I die. 



32 A Tragic Poem. 

Mal. My brother is chief of these 
Gipsies. 

Edith. Well — speak ! 

Mal. Is loved of all the tribe — ^is kind 
And ever faithful to his sister. 

Edith. On ! on ! Save me ! 

Mal. Fair woman — he is old — - 
And — blind — with little to love in 
This bitter world, save her who stands 
Before you — his only traitor 
Of all the tribe! 

Edith. Rosalie ! Where, where is she ? 

Mal. Yes ; I, too, know a mother's love- 
These withered arms have cradled many 
Tender buds — cut off — ere they blossomed- 
And for these — and tlie sake of your 
White dove, I will lay her 
In your bosom. 

Mark you, woman ! she is the old man's 
Life — the blind old man I 



j4 "Tragic Poem. 33 

But she is your child ! 
Come — I pray you rest 

Until I come ! 

[Edith sinks upon the sward, with 

outstretched arms — cries in a 
smothered voice, 
Edith. Good angel ! wilt thou bring her to 
These arms ? These — arms ? 

Mal. I will ! 

\Exit Gipsy. 

[Edith szuoons — and in rush three 
officers with Ynez, searching after 
Edith — they thus find her. 

Scene Third. 
Ynez. Oh ! my poor mistress ! She is dead I 
What a state for a lord's wife ! Oh ! 
Oh! oh! oh! 

1ST Off. Haste ! let us take her ! 
2D Off. Yes [lifting her t/f] ; my lord's man- 
date ! 

" Dead or alive.'' 

2* 



34 -^ "tragic Foem. 

op Off. Yes ; poor countess ! and while she 
swoons, 
She will not resist us. 

Ynez. She does not breathe ! Oh ! Oh ! 

2D Off. What good has here perished ! 

1ST Off. She only swoons — let us away 
And lay her in her lord's arms. 

3D Off. God forbid ! that there she should 
Revive. 

[Exeunt with Edith in their arms. 



ACT IL— Scene First, 

Camp Scene of Gipsies — Enter Malvina. 

Mal. Gone ! gone indeed ! was she — ^poor 
soul! 

And still — ^'twere well ! 
For the white dove was not for the 
Arms of Lord Eglestone — yet — ^had 
She stayed, it would have drawn the 
Sunshine of a mother's blessing 
To their dim marriage altar. Well ! 
Well is it thus. 

I have robbed 
A blind old man of his last love. 
Aye ! these withered nerves grow weaker, 
In thinking of his barren life — 

I — can — no — more ! 

\Sinks dozen overcome. 



36 A 'tragic Poem, 

Malvina ! 
Once a tender child ! A wife — a modier — 
What blow is this — thou hast dealt ? Ruin ! 
Ruin ! ruin ! But, 
These two beings touched the only 
Chords that give music : snapped, indeed. 
Are they too ! Still, the heart that has 
Bled and died — quivers still through that 
Universal law of animal life ! Thus, gave I 
The dove — to her gallant lover's arms : 
And these lips, in uttering a 
Mother's blessing — cursed the evening 
Of a weary life I Hark ! he is near — 

[^Leans aside. 

My brother ! Oh ! " Guilty " cries my soul I 

\_She stands apart iinperceived by 
Otho and his Gipsy guard, zcho 
enter. 

Otho. Where is Malvina ? Hast thou 
Seen her ? 



A 'tragic Poem. 37 

Guard. No, chief 

Otho. And Rosalie ! Rosalie ! 
My life's darling ! I am calling 
Thee ! Thou knowest these sightless orbs 
Can never behold thee — sweet fawn I 
But I am listening for thy step ; 
And thy voice to cheer me ! lead me 
To her, Guard — to young Rosalie ! 

Guard. Chief, the Fawn has fled — she is 
Not in all the camp, nor field ! 

Otho. Fled ! She w^nt for sweet flowers, 
The child so loves ! No, no ! she was 
Too true to break an old — 
What say you ? Guard you not nightly ? 
Did you not watch well my birdie's 
Cage? I trusted you ! 

Guard. Yes, chief; but of late the maiden 
Went forth but Uttle. At the sunset 
Hour, over the hills, she always 
Strayed : with hood and basket — but you 



38 A 'tragic Poem, 

Know, chief, she was the light of the 
Camp, ever at nightfall. 

Otho. Yes, yes — Returning with her 
Gatherings of wood flowers, her 
Hood thrown off her sweet, cool face : my 
Old, withered soul felt she was beautiful 
As good ! Pray, let me sit ! 

\Sits feebly down. 
Tell me. Tell me of her ! 

Guard. Two days hence, the sunset-moon 
sank ; 
And night came quickly on : but not 
The maid. I watched— till anxious for 
Her coming — but in vain ! Then up 
The hills I ran, in her footsteps — 
But nowhere was she found. On, on 
I sped, groping a weary way 
Through the thick darkness of the night — 
Until I stood near the black stone 
Chapel of the village church — its 



. ^ A T^ragic Poem. 39 

Aisles closed for ages — and its galleries 

Crumbled in the path of travellers ! 

Otho. Enough ! I know ! 'Tis an ill omened 

Spot ! / vsas wedded there ! 

And, mind you ! all vows made there are 

By Heaven broken — and their hearts 

Laid waste. Speak on ! 

[Malvina xjcrithes at this recital 
in double despair. 

Guard. Well, good chief! e'en while I paused 
To breathe, a faint light trembled forth 
From that mass of damp desolation. 
I would have fled — but something seized 
Me stronger than fear ; and I groped 
Along, dragging my body through 
The broken pillars, aisles, and ruin. 
At last, from a strange height of rubbish 
I looked down, where glimmered a wee 
Taper ; throwing a frightful glare 
Upon the exposed skeletons 



40 J. T^ragic Foem. 

Once sepulchered there — there^ I saw 
An altar — there^ I saw — 

Otho {grasping him in agony). 

What ! what saw you ? 

Guard. Good chief! I saw your Fawn — 
The maid, attired in bridal robes, 
Kneeling, with a knight arrayed in 
Silver, gold, and precious stones, taking 
The sacred vows of marriage — and 
Receiving the blessings of an 
Old, holy man — and, one other. 
Of the camp — that other was — 

[Malvina rushes forthy fearing to see 
the old man die of all the astounding 
story — herself the greatest actor, 

Mal. Otho ! Brother ! I am here — 

[ To the guard. 
Speak thou no more — 
For, of a truth, thou hast, with one 
Blow, struck two. 



ji 'Tragic Poem. 41 

Otho. Malvina ! lead me hence — I am 
Blind. Alas ! as sightless now in the 
Inner "cision in which I joyed, 
As in these darkened orbs ! 
But revenge shall quench the last, the 
Only spark of life left in this 
Stricken breast. For the traitor 
Of old blind Otho, naught but death ! 
Dear Malvina ! lead me hence, quickly ! 

[Exeunt alL 

Scene Second. 

Scene represents Edith de Belmont lying on a Couch in the 
Castle Hall — Lord de Belmont sits banqueting in the dis- 
tant End of the Hall — gay Music is heard — Dancing, 
Drinking, and all Hilarity, as Edith opens her Eyes wildly. 

Edith. What ! where am I ? 

\Looks upon the banquet. 
O ! hateful vision I Cursed am I 
In all things — save in the belief 



42 A "tragic Poe?n. 

That there is a God — sick ! weary ! 
Oh ! weary unto death ! Ynez ! 

Ynez. Sweet mistress ! What would you ? 

Edith. Ynez — is it thou? How came I 
here? 
Was I ill ? am I ? yes : I hear 
That voice of laughter — I live — I 
Suffer still ! 

Ynez. Sweet mistress ! 

Edith. Oh ! such a vision has been 
Before me ! wherein I trembled 
On the very verge of bliss — but 
Alas ! alas ! alas ! 

Did I sleep ? 

Ynez. Yes, my lady ! 

Edith. Then it was a dream. 
Methought I wandered forth in 
Pilgrim's garb, to search for my dear 
Daughter. Woods and wilds compassed me : 
Days of fast, and weariness, and 



A Tragk Poe?n. 43 

Still worse, despair, were my sad portion — 
Until the forest rang with my 
Calls ; and reason sank — hopelessly. 

Then, my feet 
Left footprints of blood — tears scorched out 
My sight — darkness came upon me 
In a waste — and I laid me down 
To die. But, mark you, Ynez ! how 
Sweetly changed all this : — my spirit 
Fluttered within me, in the suddenness 
Of hope, that Rosalie would hear 
Me^ could I call. Strength came — and I 
Saw a light afar off — and deep 
Within a dell, a gipsy camp. 

Ynez. Oh ! dear mistress ! 

Edith. Yes ; and swiftly 
I flew — calling ! calling ! 
When suddenly a face beamed on 
Me! 

Ynez. Dear mistress I 



44 -^ Trag?c: Poem. 

Edith. Yes, Ynez, 
She held this hand — and I heard her 
Lips utter my sweet child's name. Aye, 
Better than I heard those revellers 
My heart drank in the sounds — alas ! 
Alas ! And, so soft were the tones 
Of the brawny Gipsy, that 
Edith de Belmont laid her weary 
Head upon that strong, tender 

Bosom AND BEGGED ITS LOVE ! 

Ynez. It was, perchance, a dream — 
Dear mistress, // was a dream ! 

Edith. Well ! The spirit was refreshed — and 
I will wear the image of my brawny 
Friend, in memory always. 
But why am I here, Ynez ? what 
Do I in this banquet hall ? Those 
Sounds are like molten lead within 
Me. Lead me away, good Ynez ! 
I tremble so ! 



A "tragic Poem, 45 

Ynez. My lord wished your presence^ — 
With message to await his pleasure 
Here. You are weary — 
Rest, rest, I beseech you, good mistress ! 

Edith. My lord ! Weary ! Yes ; 
Very weary. At times, 
I think me like the dove that went 
Forth from the ark, destined to 
Return no more to her haven. 
Have you seen the Earl of Eglestone ? 

Ynez. Yes ; my lord and the earl have held 
Long discourse — and much banqueting. 
The wedding feast prepares — and all ^ 
Have orders to bring the bride. 

Edith. Enough, good Ynez I leave me here — 
I hear those steps ! he comes — go ! go ! 
I pray you go ! 

\_Staggering from her conchy she 
stands erect, clutching a chair. 



4^ A Tragic Poe?n. 



Scene Third. 

Scene represents a Garden of the Castle of the Earl of Lent- 
NORE — Malvina sitting, her Head upon her Hands — pale, 
haggard, and waiting for Rosalie — Enter Rosalie — runs 
to Malvina, and sits at her Feet, 

Rosalie. Mother of our joys ! good, good 
Malvina ! Nay — I do love thee 
Till I grow weak in very fondness ! 
Here would I lull me with thy fond 
Words ! 

[Lays her head upon Malvina's knees. 

Mal. Child ! Wife, thou art now ! 
The path of childhood's joy lies far, 
Far behind thy steps ! Oh ! far^ 

Indeed ! 

\_She shudders. 

Rosalie. Well, my old guardian! how now? 
Why, bless thy old loving heart ! Canst 
Thou be cast down because thy 



A tragic Foem. 47 

Birdie left the cage of thy wild 

Camps for a bright home where love dwells ? 

Thou wilt come to the home of the 

Earl's wife, and she will sit under 

Thy mantle, just as did the frightened 

Girl to whom thou wast so kind ! 

Come to my cheer and comfort. 

[Malvina looking singularly wierd- 
like, still crouched. 

Mal. Child ! wife ! I sent for thee, here. 
My business is one of Death — not 
Life — nor Love — nay ! touch me not ! 
The touch of affection is no more 
For Malvina. In this heart, where 
Its stream once flowed in sunny warmth, 
There is naught but a dry, rocky 
Channel. 

Rosalie. Can I hear ? Malvina I is it thou ? 

Mal. I have heard the curse of the old, 
Dying man — whose blood is mine 



48 J tragic Poem. 

Without thee, he has no Hfe ; and 
Little deems the death sentence he 
Has pronounced, lops off the last branch ! 

Rosalie. Malvina ! thou die ? Oh ! oh, no I 

[Malvina pulling her down before 
her — her own grey locks falling 
over the shoulders of the young 
countess. 

Mal. Swear ! By the heaven above us — 
By the heaven I call to bless 
Your marriage vovi^s — to aid me, and 
Consent to all I ask ! 

Rosalie. My second mother ! 

Mal. Swear ! by the dark stone chapel^ — 
And the grinning dead, who witnessed 
There your vows. Swear ! 
By the sorrow that will drown your 
Young soul — by the fire that will blight, 
Wither, scorch, snap every chord of 
Thy pure heart — whose flame is already 



A ^ragk Poe/iL 49 

So near, that it seems to glow 
Around me — swear I swear I 

[Rosalie covers her face in her 
handsj, and cries in a smothered 
voice, 

Rosalie, O Malvina ! Second mother ! 
I swear ! I — swear I 

Mal. Malvina, who found thee in the 
Cold woodlands of thy mother's colder 
Lord, who kept thee in safe shelter 
From that serpent-nest — =the arms of . 
Lord Eglestone ! Malvina, who so 
Loved thee, that she gave thee to thy 
Lover's arms, there, watching the sunset 
Glow upon thy sweet cheeks for many, 
Many days I Malvina, who has 
Killed an old^ blind man ! who stood with 
Thee at the dim altar on that 
Fatal night, among the staring 
Dead ! My child ! Malvina is 



§o A Tragic Poem. 

To be burned to death, by Otho's 
Will ! and in his presence ! 

The traitor 
Who robbed him of his life's blessing 
Is condemned to die — hut never 
Shall he know who burns — I have bought 
The silence of the camp — and, swear 
Thou, to aid this, my last aim in 
Life I 

No ! no ! Let me not hear thy voice — 
I will bum. Thy mother's prayers 
Prevailed I I was once a child I a 
Mother ! 

[She falls upon Rosalie's neck, and 
suddenly lifting her bony arm, ont- 
stretched, points through the trees, 

Rosalie I wife I Look up ! The plait 
Of thorns that life and love weave is 
Ready for thee ! The flame I look ! 
It flies to devour thee ! Oh, 



A tragic Poem. 51 

My dove ! These old arms cannot now 
Shelter thee as once ! No ! no ! 

[Enter servants of the Castle of 
Lentmore, 

Serv. Oh, my lady I my lady ! Woe ! woe ! 
My lord has been killed in combat 
With the Earl of Eglestone — near 
The park of Lentmore. Lying now 
Dabbled In his gore ! Oh, oh, oh ! 
So good to all was he ! 

[Rosalie, giving her hand to Mal- 
viNA, says in suffocating tones, 

Rosalie. Good Malvina I 
Lead me to my mother's bosom^ — 
Hers was my first pillow ! 
Will be my last I Lead me 
To the Halls of the Lord de Belmont — 
There thou mayst leave me I 

[Extends her arms to Malvina and 
cries. 



52 j4 Tragic Poefu. 

Malvina I my second mother I 

Take me ! 

Mal. Yes; these hands decked thee in thy 

Bridal sweetness — and they alone 

May put on thy sable robes. 

To-morrow come thou to thy 

Gipsy home. Bring thy mother, 

That she may see and know^ a w^ife's, 

A mother's love, is stronger far 

Than life ! Come, now, to thy 

Father's halls. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



ACT III.— Scene First. 

Scene represents the Palace of De Belmont — Lord de Bel- 
mont — and Edith standing against her Couch for Sup- 
port, 

Lord de B. Madam, where is your daughter ? 
Why stand you thus before me ? Has 
Dumbness turned into one of your 
Accomplishments ? 

Edith. My lord, I know not where she is. 
I am weary of her absence— 
Unto death ! but of her marriage. 

Lord de B. Enough ! enough I All matters 
are 
Arranged. The wedding feast awaits 
Her coming. 'To morrovSs sun shall 
See her coupled to Lord Eglestone. 
Mind you I he is the blackest fiend 



54 -^ I'rag/c Poem. 

I ever knew ; but debts oppress, 
And all is cancelled with her hand. 

Edith. Oh, my lord ! Spare me I Spare me I 
See, on my knees I beseech your 
Clemency ! Have you no thought of 
A mother's love ? Is there no spark 
Of human sympathy in your 
Breast ? 

Lord de B. Faugh I faugh ! leave off thy 
simpering — 
'Tis loathsome. Go ! make ready for 
The Bridal Enough have I put off 
The fiendish lover. Three months have I 
Searched far and wide for the willful 
Bride — yet knows he not that the bird 
Has flown ; and to-morrow I will 
Have thy daughter given to her 
Lord — for 'tis the last day he extenuates 
In our contract. The search sure — 
She inn si and shall be found ! Go I 



J Tragic Poem. 55 

Go madam, and deck for the bridal I 
Ha ! ha ! ha 1 

[Edith staggers out unassisted — while 
Lord de Belmont sits down to zvrite. 

Scene Second. 
Enter Rosalie veiled in Black — advancing slowly, 

Rosalie. To these halls — of my — dead father 
I retum^more dead — than living ! 

Lord de B. Ho, ho, youngster I they have 
caught 
You at last, have they ? 

Rosalie. Whom do you address ? 
I came here freely. Where is my mother ? 

Lord de B. Off^ blubbering about you — her 
Child, possessing the filial duty 
To run off — God knows where — and 
With whom I 

Rosalie. Monster I Do you dare thus 
Insult me in these walls ? the child 



56 J T^raglc Voem. 

Of her whose heart has bled its last 
Drop, through your wrongs ! whose life 
Has ever been passive slavery 
To your more than base will ! 
Can you thus dare % 

Lord de B. Come, now, young bride I in these 
Hands are you, and their clutch is 
Iron ! ha I ha I ha ! 

Rosalie. Vilest of men! Off! offl 
Through you has come the ruin of 
Our lives ! Oh, my dear, fond mother ! 
Toil it was who tore, in cruelty, 
These loving arms from her neck 1 
You it was who frightened away 
Her child from her fond bosom ! 
And these lips, that should have been near 
For the sw^eet w^ords of sympathy. 
Were driven far away ! while she 
Was left to thy ruthless infidelity I 
Vilest, vilest, man I 



A Tragic Poem, 57 

Lord de B, But, hark you I fair Rosalie I 
Ruin stares me in the face — thou art 
Rich in the possession of Lord 
Eglestone's fortune — and hand — he 
Only asks thy love — and all my debts 
Are wiped away. Listen ! thy mother 
Will have no home. 

Rosalie. Oh, my mother I The fountain 
Of my heart is not dry — but — petrified ! 

Lord de B. Hear me ! hear me ! All is ready — 
The feast prepares — nay, more 1 thy 
Mother sanctions all. Save me ! save me I 
The Lord of Eglestone is here — 
All, all, awaiting thy consent. 
To spare thy mother the possession 
Of her ancestors' halls. Come, sweet ! 

Rosalie. He here ? The Lord of Eglestone 
Sheltered within these walls ? 

Lord de B. Yes ; and waiting with all 
The fire of impatience for thee ! 

3* 



58 J "Tragic Poenh 

Rosalie. Then, here I may not rest this 
Weary head. Nay I I may not die 
Here. 

[ To Lord de Belmont. 

I go now 
To the Gipsy camp, beyond the 
Woodlands of Lentmore ; but ere I 
Go, swear thou to me — 
Down I down on thy knees, before me I 



[He kneels* 



Know, then, 
That I hate the Earl — more than 
Any tongue could express ! 
Swear that you will come to the camp 
At the midnight hour. Bring my 
Mother I thy wronged wife ! I will 
Tell you nothing here — under the same 
Roof with him — but, come thou to the 
Camp, and the midnight moon 
Will witness there our settlement — 



J Tragic Poem. 59 

Of all thy sins, registered by 
The All Good and just I Swear, 
Or I leave thee thus I 

[Lord de B., seizing her handy 
attempts to detain her. 

Lord de B. Oh, I do swear ! Thou wilt not 

Desert me! Tou shall not I Ruined 
Man that I am I Rosalie ! 
Rosalie ! 

Rosalie, No, no I / will he there I Fear not I 
F-or even in thy weakness it 
lVerefoll)\ Bring thy wife. 

Lord de B. But the Earl ? My life is in his 
Hands, He demands thee for to-morrow — 
Even now he awaits thy coming. 

Rosalie, No ! your life is not in his hands. 
Bring him there. Swear ! 
Swear to all I 

Lord de B. Yes, Yes ; too willingly I swean 
Do not go I I am lost I lost I 



6o A tragic Poem, 

Rosalie. Thou art, indeed ! 
Pray thou this night ! 
And come to-morrow at the 
Midnight hour. 

But, stay ! 
Say not you saw me. Spare that 
Pain to my blessed mother ! 
Remember, I will do naught without 

Her presence. Remember ! 

{Exit Rosalie^ leaving Lord de B, grasp-' 
ing after her roles — on his knees. 
Lord de B. Have I let slip again 
My only hope ? By the Lord I 
I am driven to madness ! Fool \ 
Fool that I was I But her wan, 
Pale countenance spell-bound me ! 
And my grasp loosened, as by magic^ 
From her black vesture ! 

Has God himself 

Abandoned me ? 

\Throxvs himself upon the floor* 



A tragic Poem. 6l 



Scene Third, 

Scene is Night— the Moon is setting behind the Gipsy 
Camp— the blind old Chief is seated in the Midst of ail 
the Tribe — man^y Men bearing the Arms of Lentinore are 
lurking in the Rear — Rosalie is crouched^ unseen — and 
Edith is standing pale— and dying, beside the Lord de 
Belmont. 

[Malvina rushing forth in her zceird« 
like garments and f owing locks* 

Mal. The blood of Lentmore 
Is on thy soul ! Vengeance cries 
Against thee ! Earl of Eglestone ! 
Seize him ! Let him die I 

Edith. Oh, the dream I My gipsy-friend \ 
My child ! Oh, my God ! 

[Staggers towards Malvina, 

Rosalie {riishmg forth). 

Stand back, you bearers 
Of Lentmore arms. / am the wife 



62 J Tragic Poenh 

Of the Earl of Lentmore, whom you 

[Tb Eglestone. 
So cruelly did murder I 

And 
The hand his love for him did win, 
Will avenge his death ! 

[She plunges a dagger in the breast of 

the Earl of Eglestone, who dies. 
{Rushes to Edith, who folds her arms 
around her, while Rosalie lays her 
mothefs head upon her bosom, 

Edith* Oh, my child ! With my last ray 
Of life I behold thee ! I— die- 
Rosalie ! Ro — sa — 1 — 

[She dies* 
Otho {groping about). 

What I what is all this ? 

Rosalie I my fawn I 

Where art thou ? Let me feel thy sweet 

Face once more ! Rosalie I Rosalie I 

Where ? — where ? 



J Tragic Poem. 63 

Rosalie {kissing her dead mother). 

Oh, my good angel I 
My mother I Woe I woe I woe I 

[Springing up, she points to Lord de 
Belmont, while the scene is all a-glozv 
with the red glare of the Jlames al- 
ready made. 

Men of Lentmore I hark ! 
That fiend was the ruin of all 
Who loved and cared for you ! 

[She stabs herself and falls beside her 
mother — the Lord de Belmont is seized 
by the enraged men {his cries suffo- 
cated) and fung into the fire pre- 
pared for Malvina. 

[Otho, discovering Rosalie is dead^ 
cries in despair, 

Otho. Where ? where, is the gipsy traitor ? 
Let him burn now ! Woe, woe, 
Forever hangs over the stone chapel I 



64 ' A Tragic Poem. 

Oh, my fawn I Oh, my sweet dove I 
Where is the traitor ? Let him perish ! 

[Malvina mounts the Jlame and leaps 
zuithin. 
Mal. Otho ! Malvina -was thy traitress I 
She burns to expiate thy grief! 
Forgive her ! for she loved thee ! 
And, although she deceived so deeply, 
Yet she loved — e'en — thy misfortune. 
Forgive — forgive thy sister. 

[Otho stretches forth his arms. 
Otho. Malvina ! Malvina ! 

\He springs forward and rushes zvithin 
theflames. 



PART III. 



BALLADS, ETC. 



BALLAD. 

Dark night hung o'er the moorland ! 

A storm raged o'er the deep ! 
While one stood on the barren beach, 

A long, lone watch to keep. 

Billows heaved ! The storm was fierce ! 

But, oh ! the maiden's cries 
Were fiercer than the tempest's rage, 

That seemed to rend the skies. 

Her golden locks were torn, and tossed, 
And damp by the cold death-spray. 

That first blew o'er the stiffened corse 
Of her lover- — far away I 



70 Ballad. 

The storm sank to a baby's rest, 

In the bosom of the sea — 
A noiseless wave kiss'd the tender feet 

That bled on the barren lea. 

But, lo ! the wave a burden laid 
Upon the dark, cold strand ; 

A form was in the maiden's arms : 
A hand was in her hand I 

Thus, they whose hearts were one in life, 
(Vows made among the roses,) 

Each in the other's arms, in death, 
Deep in the sea reposes. 



SONG. 

THE ROSE. 

Among the " flowers of perished years " 
That sweetly bloom in every breast, 

A rose, a lovely rose, appears. 

More fragrant, far, than all the rest. 

Its petals are deep crimson dyed, 

With Hope, in Passion's early glow- 
When youth upon its fragrant tide, 
Flowed with the gushing spirit's flow. 

And in the moonlight of our years. 
We still the glowing rose may see ; 

For then its life-dews are our tears ; 
Its living bloom, Eternity ! 



72 Song, 

It opes in beauty when we love — 
And closes when that love is fled : 

But feelings death cannot remove, 

In Heaven bloom — ^when we are dead. 



NOON. 

I LOVE the slanting shadows of a summer noon— 
The cool and drowsy ripple of the flowing stream ; 
I love the stillness of the quiet summer air, 
That dimples now and then upon the ripening 

grain 
A gentle wave ; and bends the silent, nodding 

trees, 
And stirs the vine. 

At noon, upon the distant plain 
I watch the dancing of the flitting shades, and 

feel 
The softness of the quiet scene. Then the buzzing 
Of the summer bee — the careless carol of the 
Wanton bird — the lazy winging of the gaudy 

4 



74 Noon. 

Butterfly — these lend a sweet influence to the 
Hour, and the rushing swiftness of the waking 

dawn 
Sinks into dreamy reveries, that float upon 
The still repose of noon. 

See I a bank 
Of freshest turf! whose stream is lingering near 

its 
Pebbly edge, and mirroring in its silvery face 
The heavy shadows of the spreading trees that 

group 
Upon the lawn. Lambs are lolling upon the 

slope 
Of a distant hill ; and from a clump of elms in 
Its lovely vale, the smoke of a wee cottage shows 
Against the sky. Above all this, the pinion of 
The silent noon is unfurled in perfect loveliness ! 
Yet, 'tis not the hour to fear, to hope, to love, or 
Even live ; to create vain desire, or dream of 
Things we love. It is an hour when the wearied 



Noon. 



75 



Spirit floats upon a peaceful rest. Amid this 
Pictured noon, gazing on all its gentle, speaking 
Beauties, life forgets itself — and the heart, like a 
Sorrowing dove — nestles 'neath the wing unfurled 
Above the scene, and fills — with sweet repose and 

peace — 
The gliding beauty of my " Noon Picture." 



SONG. 

THE LOVED OF EARLY YEARS. 

The loved of early years I oh where 

Are they ? Gone like the summer's bloom ! 

Some came and smiled — some sowed the tare — 
And some — are gathered to the tomb ! 

All silent in the grave at last ! 

Some to the spirit-home are borne — 
While others, buried with the Past, 

We weep for — and as dead we mourn. 



THE WINTER VOICE OF GOD. 

High and bare peer the tall trees 'mid the 

Forest gloom, 
And lifting their long leafless arms up to 

The far- 
OfF blue of heaven, they lend a howling 

Dirge to the 
Cold winter blasts : thus mournfully 

They stand, like stern 
Sentinels, where all is 'Death ! 

And the 
Grassy margin of the summer brook, 

Where violets 
Wink at the soft spring breeze, and lilies 

Droop, and bathe 



78 The Winter Voice of God. 

Their fragrant heads — and Love sits to 

Muse on future 
Days — while the willow showers its 

Sheen of golden 
Bloom, the bees send forth their dozy 

Hum, and birds sing 
Merrily from every nook and shady copse — 

Sear ! 
Oh, sear are now the dreamy borders, and 

Dry and 
mi the pebbly bed : " Cold and drear !" 

Sighs every passing 
Wind. " Oh ! cold and dead !" whisper 

The spirits of the 
Sweet spring-flowers and leaves. 
The sun streams through the silent bowers 

So grey 
And leafless I with a sickly smile, and 

Looks upon 
A scene of solemn death, where all Beauty, 

Fragrance, 



T'he Winter Foice of God. yg 

Bloom^ obey the law of Nature — the voice 

Of God! 
The hush seems an eternal one (where 

Man may learn 
A lesson of obedience to command), and 

Silently 
They await in their sisjeet death the 

Spring-voice of their 
Maker, wherein every hue and breath of 

Nature 
Will burst forth with one loud voice of 

Song, 
In their bloomings fragrant^ antke?n^ that 

Seems to say 
" / know that my Redeemer livethr 



SPRING, 

Green are the boughs, and bending 
In the full promise of Spring ; and 
Like sweet smiles over the glad earth 
The flower-cups droop, laden with a 
Fragrance that feasts the laughing airs. 
The hills — the dark old hills I and copses 
Are glad ; the stern torrents are stern 
No more in their murmuring ripples ; 
While the birds are whispering to 
Themselves of spring and mirth, and beauty 
Is dwelling everywhere in the 
Young Life-landscape. Hope sits in 
The bloom of nature, and speaks in 
The glad language of promise ; but 



Spring. 81 

Of all^ the brightest type lives in 

The young heart. Oh ! where the beauty 

That may vie with its young dream ? Where 

The Rose that 7nay lend one tint 

To its young thoughts^ blushing in their 

Own pure excess ? and where the song 

Of the glad bird that may teach its 

Language the song of Hope ? 'Tis a 

Song caught from the sphere where angels 

Chant it ; and the bloom that tinges 

The young heart's dream, may not find its 

Counterpart — nor in field — nor garden I 



4* 



SUMMER. 

The starry clematis is flinging 
Fragrance far upon the breeze ; 

The merry oriole is swinging 
Gaily in the leafy trees. 

Dark copses ring, then seem to listen 
For their echoes o'er the plain ; 

And beams that make the daisies glisten. 
Burnish, too, the ripening grain. 

Oh ! green the fields in Summer's glory 
When the wind and brooklets play ! 

When the heart's remembered story 
Blooms amid the blooming day. 



"Summer. 83 

When gentle accents, that, belonging 

To a time when mem'ry lives, 
Spring in our spirits, fragrant ! thronging ! 

Like the flowers Summer gives. 

Who is it wanders through her bowers 
With no fragrance from the bloom 

Some glad Spring's remembered hours 
Fling about her early tomb ? 

There is, I ween, a little flower 

Closely folded in your breast. 
That, in sweet Summer's golden hour 

Peeps up from its place of rest ; 

And like the sacred Rose, unclosing 
Beauty where all life seemed fled ! 

Say ! is she no brightness disclosing 
In thy heart — strewn with the dead ? 



ALL WE LOVE, 

All we love and fondly cherish 
In the narrow grave must lie ! 

Throbbing hearts must humbly perish 
In the dust^so silently ! 

Arms that fold us in affection 
In their winding-sheet must fall ! 

And those of the heart's election 
Are e'en taken first of all ! 

Oaks, whose arms protect and nourish 
Many clinging tendrils, die ; 

While the vine that loved to flourish, 
Lifts its fingers to the sky ; 



All we Love, 85 

Vainly struggling with the tempest 
Its father's arms so well withstood I 

Thus die the young, the old, the blest. 
The wicked, cursed, and the good ! 



SONG. 

COME TO ME IN DREAMS. 

Oh ! come to me in dreams ! 

In sweet midnight dreams ; 
When silent stars are keeping 

Vigil in the streams. 

Come to my weary spirit, 
Like the midnight gale, 

That steals the dewy fragrance 
Of the primrose pale ; 

And like its breast unclosing 
To the still moonbeams, 

Unfold thy wings and brighten 
Mine in its fond dreams. 



Song. 87 

That my heart in dreams may smile, 

Tho' tears are on my cheek I 
Uttering sweet hopes the while 

Lips may never speak. 



^^THE NIGHT OF DEATH DRAWS 
NEAR." 

Come ! 
By the seaside and watch the waves — 
The restless waves ! Stretching forth their 
Ever reaching arms, out to their 
Silent shores ! The tearful murmurs 
Of the ocean's voice, bring to your 
Ear the doomed sigh — " never more !" 
While the eager tide lashes e'en 
Your footprints, and vision turns within 
The soul to watch the echo-waves 
Of joy and grief — the goods and ills 
Of Hfe. " Why can you come no more ?" 



" The Night of Death dravjs near'' 89 

Cries out the soul in vain longing, 

As the sunny days of life glide 

Before that magic mirror where 

Memory so loves to dwell ! and look ! 

Hark ! a voice has breathed upon the 

Beauteous surface the solemn 

Response : a mist obscures the 

Peopled mirror from your sight — and 

In awe you hear : 

" They can come no more," " For the night 

Of death draws near." 

Attend, thou shepherd who goest 
Hand in hand with youth, spring-time and 
Flowers : the mountain brook must flow 
Onward ; and the green leaves in all 
Their umbrageous beauty must perish 
Too, with the wild rose and waving 
Dewy grass, that greet and shelter 
Thee now. For the days are like the 



90 " T^he Night of Death draws nearT 

Notes of thy flute, dropping from the 

Fingers of time into the unseen 

Gulf of Eternity ; from whence 

T^hey can come no ?nore ! " The night of 

Death draws near I" 

Child of sorrow, 
Learn this, and thou wilt have a helping 
Hand to bear the burden of a 
Weary life ; and thou, whose tears have 
Never flowed, whose hours are like the 
Bright drops glittering in the 
Ocean's waves at night, attend I Sleep 
T^hou no more^ thou soul ! but tum 
And look upon that humbled one. 
The day is shedding his last light 
Upon the upturned eyes that see 
No earthly thing ; the weak arms 
Are stretched forth for aid ; and the 
Weaker soul pants for that all- 



■ " Ti^^ Night of Death draws nearT 91 

Sustaining Power ; Vv^hile the voice 
Gasps — " fFhat is the end of all things ?'' 
The filmy eyes and quivering frame 
Reply — " T^he night of Death draws near P' 



ODE TO NATURE. 

I LOVE to watch the Hly fair 
Unfold to breathe the sunny air ! 
I love to watch the sunbeams play 
Upon the face of opening day ! 
Oh ! every beauteous, simple thing, 
That smiles upon the breast of spring. 
Speaks to my heart a joy untold, 
In all that wealth and pomp unfold ! 

I love the carol of the bird ! 

The song of leaves ! by zephyrs stirred ; 

And tinkles of the laughing rill. 

My soul, with soothing rapture fill I 



Ode to Nature, 93 

These lend enchantment to the day 
That darkest dawns upon life's way. 
Oh ! when the dear, the loved are gone, 
And I am left to mourn alone. 

To Nature will I flee and weep ! 
And on her breast my grief will sleep I 
There, cradled in her tenderness, 
My spirit will look up and bless 
The " Giver of all good," who sends. 
In form so fair, one who befriends 
Those w^hom he loves, '^hro' her belong 
The offerings of my soul — in song ! 



"I KNEW A SPIRIT ONCE." 

I KNEW a spirit once that sank 

Into the tomb ; 
And like a withered bud unblown, 

She died in gloom ! 

Her form was fair — yet frail — as oft 

The lily's stem ; 
Her saddened heart shone thro' her eye, 

A hidden gem ! 

And like a tender plant she grew 

In desert wild ; 
'Mong rankled weeds, where serpents dwelt, 

Misfortune's child I 



" / lOiew a Spirit Oncer 95 

For as her soul in purity 

The stranger grew, 
She could not love in such a wild, 

For none she knew ! 

Thus, when her nature would unfold 

In kindred love. 
Her spirit, on the wing of sleep. 

Soared above I 

Her voice was never heard in song. 

Nor did she speak ; 
Her cheek wore not one tinge of bloom. 

Her eye was meek ; 

Just like a fallen beam of light 

She shone awhile ; 
And when she died, her lovely face 

Wore its first smile. 



SONNET. 

^^NEVER MORE." 

Oh ! would ye hear the knell that loudest tolls 
The death of bright hearts that else had lived in 
Bloom and sunny fragrance ? 
Oh ! would ye learn the Ocean-depth that rolls 
Deepest within the soul ? Sweeping out far 
Upon the golden strand of Present hours 
It flings its briny billows to the Past, 
And lashes there the echo of the pulse — 
" Never more'' In the slow ebbings of age, 
Whose measured beatings lash against the tomb. 
As in the sunny tide of youth's sweet 
Memories, it dwells — robbing the jewelled 
Brow of Hope, and jaundicing the soul's sweet 
Freshness ! 



„ SONG 

SWEET MEMORIES. 

Like the soft summer zephyrs of even, 
O'ersweeping the flowers with dew, 

Comes the breath of sweet memories o'er us, 
Vibrating the spirit anew. 

Oh ! they give to the bloom of affection 
Its hue, and w^Ith fragrance embahn 

Oft the path, that may lie in a desert 
Of years without joy or calm I 

Oh I they scatter bright images round us, 
Like rose leaves strewn by the gale — 

And the spirit-closed eyes of the loved. 
And lips that are silent and pale I 

5 



98 Song, 

In the halo of memory brighten, 
And speak in affection's fond tone I 

Say I can aught like sweet memories bind us 
To the land where the blest are borne ? 



IMPROMPTU 

ON PERUSING MOORFS " LOVE AND REASON." 

'Tis said the cold shadow of Reason one day, 
From a saunter together drove Cupid away I 
'Tis said he in vain spread his wings to the light, 
The cold shade of Reason flung o'er him her 

blight ! 
Yet, why should they sever ? Why should they 

not rove 
Companions forever, through every grove ? 
"That Cupid was surely the saddest excuse I 
While Reason was draped in unwanton abuse ! ., 
For, had she but given him the side of the sun, 
Their day would have ended bright as it begun. 



1 00 Impromptu, 

With Love shedding brightness upon the stem 

sage, 
They had prov'd the most consistent pair of the 

age. 
The truth is, / will say (with no knowing air), 
Tom Moore w^as (for painting so silly a pair) 
Silliest of the three — else poor Love had not run, 
But merely changed sides to be nearest the sun. 



